


Blizzard

by Topaz_Eyes



Series: 24: Narrow Daylight [2]
Category: 24
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-01
Updated: 2005-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:51:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continues from "In Narrow Daylight".  Tony pays Jack another visit as a blizzard rolls in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blizzard

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://jazzypom.livejournal.com/profile)[**jazzypom**](http://jazzypom.livejournal.com/) for the beta!

Jack Bauer looked up at the ominous white haze draping over the coulees a few miles west outside Cut Bank, felt the air temperature drop and the wind pick up around the flatbed of the truck. It was very early afternoon, just after lunch, and the winter storm was rolling in a little too quick for comfort. It was mid-December on the high plains, home of unpredictable weather; this was the third one already to come along this season, and winter hadn't even officially started yet.

Beside him, Nate Whimby, the elderly shop proprietor who was helping him load the truck up with lumber and supplies, scanned the greying horizon with a practiced eye.

"There it is, John. Just as the trick knee predicted. Best be gettin on now if you're gonna make it home, that blizzard's rollin in quick," Whimby drawled.

In these parts, Jack Bauer was known as John Westin, a quiet reclusive man who owned an acreage half an hour out of town and who lived for his dog, a skittish but lovable chocolate brown retriever; who came into town only occasionally for groceries and supplies for a wood refinishing hobby-type business; who always paid cash, never kept credit, who rarely spoke unless spoken to, and who silently nursed a coffee for three hours every Thursday when the old-timers gathered for their weekly bull sessions in Rosie's Roadside Cafe on the Number Nine.

Westin had arrived about a year ago, no wife or family to be known of and kept largely to himself. Nathaniel Whimby had known Westin to have had only one visitor since, back in spring sometime. The visitor drove a rented silver Dodge from the city and had stayed only one night, and he'd known that only because he'd seen the truck ahead of him pull into the driveway in the afternoon as he drove back home from Havre; when he'd gone to visit to take some of the Missus' fresh-baked muffins over the next day the truck had gone.

No, Westin was OK, if he had secrets he kept them close to his heart, and that was a damn sight better than most of the gossips around town. Whimby had no need or desire to know about them. John Westin fit in and kept his nose clean, never expected anything, never complained, and Whimby had no problem with anyone who respected the ways of life round here as Westin did.

That, plus Whimby could identify with the lines of sadness that dwelt around the blond man's odd-colored eyes. It was the type of sadness that came from living a hard and often lonely life, the type of life that people came to out here--the type of life that either left you broken or diamond-hard. So John Westin was the type of man you wanted to look out for, because you knew in a pinch he'd do the same for you.

Whimby's wife stepped to the door of the shop and called outside. "Nate, the radio's sayin the Number Two's restricted to essential service vehicles only west a here. She's blowin in mighty fast. Jen's just called and it's settled in by her place already."

"Thanks, Missus," He looked at Jack. "I'm closin up now. Jen's our daughter, lives just a few miles out a town. If you leave now you'll most likely beat it home. You OK with supplies to ride it out, John? Food, gas for the generator?"

The question was just a formality. John Westin was a competent guy and always prepared, Whimby knew. Though both he and Mrs. Whimby worried about him sometimes, living by himself on the old Jackson homestead. Yep, it had been a year now, since Westin had arrived--quiet, polite, quiet. Still, Whimby trusted the man implicitly. He was likable and pleasant enough, he had an honest smile, and the taciturn types were the most dependable. That, plus any man who had the temerity to fix up that old rat-hole of a house single-handedly had to be a stubborn old gun, and that had earned John Westin no end of respect from the old-timers around these parts.

"Yeah. Thanks, Nate."

"Drive safe now. Be seein you. Call you in a day or two if the phone lines don't go down."

Jack waved, climbed into the cab and spun out of the shop parking lot. He didn't know why old Nate Whimby seemed so enamored of him, but it felt oddly nice to know someone was watching out for him out here in this new life he'd carved on the plains. Someone to count on if he needed anything--heading east, he hoped to beat the storm swooping in and get the truck unloaded, the woodworking supplies into the barn, before having to hole up in the house for the duration. He'd been here long enough to know the blizzards often settled in for days, and he didn't want the kiln-dried lumber to get snowed on and warped in the bed of the truck.

The road was already slippery though under the wheels on the trip back; a fine sheen of moisture had settled in already and froze, and what was normally a twenty minute drive dragged out to over forty. More than once he felt the wheels slip on the asphalt and the storm proper hadn't even hit yet. Christ, it was only December, a couple of weeks to Christmas. He'd been here long enough to expect the unexpected, but it still caught him off-guard sometimes. The wind was gusting at his back too, and thank God he had the back weighted down with the lumber or he'd be fishtailing across into the other lane.

Finally Jack came up to the long hill just outside his house, with its hidden driveway just below the crest; turning left he had to traverse blindly, counting on instinct that nothing was coming the other way. He made it, barely--the semi plowing up the other side crested the hill just as his back tires ground on the gravel. He angled up to the driveway of his house as the first snowflakes were already drifting in on the cold air. As he shifted down to neutral and shut off the ignition he realized he still had to get all the supplies into the barn before he could hole up in the house, and he'd need help to get them all in before visibility dropped to nothing. Damn.

Then he saw the black sheen of an unfamiliar late-model Dodge Ram pulled up by the house.

Jack tensed--not expecting anyone because he was still in hiding, _sonofabitch_ his Glock semi-automatic was in the house _dammit_ and he cursed himself roundly for not having it on his person as he should. He was getting too comfortable here, he was alone, he should've known better--

One breath, two, and he steadied his thoughts. There were intruders unknown out there, but he knew he couldn't stay in his own cab either, because the plummeting temperature outside would eventually kill him if he did. CTU training kicked in by instinct. _Assess, plan, attack._ The truck was a rental, he knew that by the plates on the back, and someone was inside, though that didn't rule out anyone else lurking around the perimeter in the surrounding bushes. Whoever was here, was likely unfamiliar with the territory and would probably do something stupid if Jack just waited him out. The truck had been sitting for a while, he could tell by the lack of shimmering heated air around the front hood and by the frost on the inside of the cab windows. The house still appeared closed-up, no windows broken, no doors ajar, a promising sign--still it was best to take out whoever was in the truck first, then worry about any hovering backup later.

He ducked low and slid his hand under the front passenger seat to find something to use as a weapon. His fingers bumped against something smooth and metallic--he pulled out a mid-sized Maglite flashlight. It was light, but it would have to do. He pulled on the door latch as quietly as possible, slid out of the cab and crouched behind the tire, keeping low, taking small steps around the back of the truck to reduce the crackle on the powdered gravel. He crept up the driver's side of the rental, reached out one hand to fling the door open, ambush the driver and yank him out, to throttle him with bare hands if necessary--then the window rolled down and an all-too-familiar voice called out.

"Jack? That you?"

Jack stopped in mid-pounce, thunderstruck. He lost his balance, sliding to one knee on the gravel and dropping the Maglite, which rolled under the chassis and out of his reach.

"For fuck sakes Tony, what the hell are you doing here?"

Tony Almeida grinned, white teeth flashing in the semi-dark space of the cab. "Special surprise, Jack. Early Christmas present. Thought you wouldn't mind." He rolled up the window, opened the door and jumped out. "Good to see you." He extended his hand in greeting.

Jack visibly seethed, heart pumping, mouth desert-dry, muscles tensed and ready to spring--still pumped on adrenaline, he had to forcibly calm his staccato breathing. Then he let himself sag with relief--it was only Tony. He rolled his eyes and laughed wryly. "I could've killed you and you never would've seen it coming, you sonofabitch." He clasped Tony's proffered hand, letting Tony pull him up to standing; he then clapped his friend's and former colleague's shoulder, anger dissipating for now.

"It's not like anyone would find you out here anyway unless they knew where to look," Tony replied. Jack frowned, but Tony missed it; a gust whipped through the clearing in the driveway that made him shiver. "Christ, it's cold."

"Blizzard's coming," Jack said, feeling the snow drive a little harder into his face, attention now turning to the job at hand. "Come on, I gotta get this stuff into the barn before it hits full on."

They both hopped back into Jack's truck, and Jack backed it up to the barn door. Jack kept shooting anxious looks into the descending sky as they rushed to unload the lumber. "Just pile it inside, I don't like how fast that's coming," Jack yelled over the shifting wind. Tony only nodded, and they hoisted up the last of the plywood sheeting, haphazardly dropping it just inside the barn.

Both men wrestled with the wind to shut and bolt the door, faces stinging red with cold and exertion by the time they finished. "How do you stand this, Jack?" Tony shouted, wind and snow now whipping his hair and piercing through his jacket.

"You get inside and stay there," Jack replied matter of factly. "Let's go." He clapped his shoulder; they piled back into the truck and drove the fifty or so yards back to the house. They just got inside the front porch as the storm landed in earnest, the snow drifting across the driveway and blotting out any view of the outbuildings.

Inside the house was almost eerily quiet after the wind outside, now muffled but still audible around the eaves. Both men kicked off their boots and Jack shucked his coat before heading into the house proper. Once inside the safety of the kitchen, Jack found himself shivering not with cold but with suppressed adrenaline. Jack rounded on Tony, eyes searching Tony's face for some sort of reason for this apparent madness.

"Hope you don't have to be anywhere important where they're going to miss you, Almeida. You could be stuck here for days."

Tony shrugged. "Michelle and Chloe know. They can cover for me fine."

Jack gaped at his friend in stunned disbelief at his cool response, previous anger again rising to flashpoint, and his voice rose.

"Do you realize how stupid this is, not calling, not even letting me know beforehand? I could've been stuck in town with this storm, you could've frozen to death waiting for me--"

"I would've broken in and made myself at home."

Jack snorted, shaking his head with the force of erupting anger. "I would've killed you out there with my bare hands!" he shouted. "Dammit, Tony! I can't afford you doing anything reckless like that, Michelle can't--"

A strange expression crossed Tony's features--a weary sadness that stopped Jack cold in mid-tirade. His voice softened and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, do you want some coffee to warm up?"

Tony rubbed his bare, red and freezing hands together, teeth still chattering. "Thought you'd never ask."

As Jack moved about in the kitchen Tony wandered restlessly around the living room, turning on the occasional light against the stormy greyness outside, adding a warm glow to the room that almost fought back the eerie silver sheen of the blowing snow. The aroma of fresh-brewed Colombian suffused from the kitchen, almost comforting in its bitterness. He noted that Jack had continued fixing up the house since he'd last been here, working on the small touches that made the room feel more at ease, as if he lived here rather than just stayed here--paint, trim, a pair of reading glasses on top of a folded paper on the end table beside the armchair. He had to grin wryly at a feather-down quilt carelessly tossed at one end of the sofa. Had it been a year already, since Jack left his former life? Jack seemed fully settled in now, like he truly belonged in this landscape instead of just passing through--

Jack's dog, who'd been napping curled in the armchair, hopped down, came up and nuzzled at his hand with a low welcoming whine. Tony looked down and smiled sadly--the first genuine one to touch his lips in a long time.

"Hey, Kola," Tony murmured, kneeling down to ruffle the dog's fur. "Long time no see, girl." The dog nuzzled up against him, and Tony wrapped his arms around her, running his fingers through her fur, reveling in her trusting warmth. It felt a lifetime since he'd last seen Jack--and _in some ways it was_, a small, well-buried part of his mind whispered. But dammit, this wasn't the reason why he was here. He clutched at the small parcel inside the pocket of his jacket, telling himself that what was in the parcel was the only reason, hoping his bruised heart would listen...

He'd hoped he'd simply be able to visit a few hours, drop off what he needed to, and leave right away, because -- _don't go there_. But he wasn't from the prairies, he didn't have a feel for the changeable weather so he hadn't counted on being stranded--and now he was stuck here with Jack, and Jack would know, would find out--he hadn't told him, hadn't been able to find a way without risking Jack's safety in the process, though maybe, being here now, it might be a good thing--he was tired, just so tired of shouldering the burden by himself anymore and maybe he was being reckless, but--

"Are you going to take your coat off and stay a while?" Jack asked with an oddly wistful smile, derailing Tony's train of thought. Tony realized with a start that Jack had been studying him for a while; realized that he was clinging to Kola more desperately than he should. _Oh crap._ Tony looked up at the steaming mug of coffee Jack held in his outstretched hand, rapidly collecting his disjointed thoughts together.

"Guess I could," Tony replied, disentangling his fingers from Kola's fur, rising and shrugging off his jacket and dropping it on the back of the overstuffed armchair before taking the proffered cup.

"You can't leave now anyway. Blizzard's here. Nothing's going to move now." Jack curled his hands around his own mug. "The radio just announced all the roads are closed. Troopers will simply turn you back if you try to head out, so you may as well enjoy being here."

Kola nudged up against Jack's leg, earning a loving scratch behind her ears, then padded off into the kitchen to curl up by the stove. Tony watched the dog settle down and lay her head on her front paws to drift off to sleep again. Tony felt an odd loss at that--like losing an ally somehow. As much as he liked and respected Jack, he had a single-mindedness that was terrifying. The man could be truly relentless when trying to find out information, and he didn't think he could stand that type of interrogation. _Especially now._

Tony lowered his nose to the rim of the mug, gratefully inhaling the fragrant steam. He noted Jack had a mug of what looked like tea and was sipping it, eyes hooded.

"So why are you here then?" Jack spoke over the mug with a slightly wary tone.

Tony, caught in mid-sip, had a couple of seconds to mull the question. Why indeed--he told himself it was the small envelope in his jacket pocket, just that, fighting down a sudden prickling in his eyes. _Dammit, not now_\--this was going to be so much harder than he thought, if he couldn't even bring himself to answer the simplest of questions without--he inhaled, forcibly centering himself around the effort, trying to choose his words carefully, concentrating on their even timbre.

"I brought you pictures of your granddaughter. I thought you might want to see them."

Jack looked up, eyes wide, and his heart leapt even as he wanted to throttle Tony for being so reckless. "Of Theresa?" Jack swallowed, an incredulous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Tony--you know that--"

The unspoken words hung between them. _You know how dangerous it is to do this. To bring them. To have them. To even come here._ Jack let them pass though, settling on the feeling of eager expectation to see the pictures--to touch the image of his granddaughter for the first time. "Can I see them?" His voice wavered slightly.

Tony nodded slowly. "Sure." Tony set down his mug, withdrew the small packet from his jacket and handed it over. "Chloe took most of them. Kim and Chase don't even know--they figure Michelle and I are keeping them for ourselves."

"You didn't--"

"No. No copies. No one else knows, don't worry." It came out sharper than he'd intended, and hoped that Jack wouldn't notice.

Jack opened the packet with barely steady hands, leaning heavily against the armchair for support. He had been steeling himself for his granddaughter's birth for months, since Tony had been here last--tracking the infinitesimal clock movements as Kim's due date approached, never far from his mind even as he worked. The phone call from Chloe two weeks ago had been shell-shocked relief; how he'd clung to her voice then, to each measured word in her nasal matter-of-fact tone, ravenous for every detail she could offer in that brief minute. Though at the time he'd wondered why Tony wasn't the one who called--wondered, then shrugged it off, telling himself that wasn't the important thing. After he'd disconnected, he'd wept unashamedly, equal parts of joy and sadness--holding onto the vivid mental picture Chloe had painted, of his little girl, of her little girl, who would carry on forever the spirit of her grandmother in her name.

Photographs though--holy God he'd never counted on those, never even dared to dream of seeing them because he knew how much of a risk they'd entail. Jack had forced himself to be satisfied with just the news, with Chloe's quiet relaying of the details. But here they were, wonderful and impossible, the glossy paper cool and inviting under his hands. Tony had brought them and he felt his heart pounding, ready to explode, both insanely eager and terribly afraid to see them. With a sharp intake of breath, he pulled out the first one, and gazed with damp eyes at the first photograph, of Kim, exhausted and smiling in the hospital bed; cradling a small pink bundle with a red, scrunched-up face.

Tony watched Jack study the pictures, tracing one trembling finger over Kim's sweat-soaked hair in one, caressing the small pink bundle in her arms in another. Jack's lips curved into a tremulous and watery smile at the close-up of Tony holding the baby snuggled against his chest, and Tony knew exactly what he was thinking from the envious expression on his face. _Yes that should be you in that picture, Jack,_ he replied wearily in his head, _and you have no idea how I wish to God it was._ Tony bit his lip and blinked rapidly when he saw Jack's lips move silently, forming the unmistakable shape of "Love you" over a third close-up picture of Kim and Theresa.

Jack stared intently at each picture, memorizing each small detail. Each curve, each smile, each fall of hair and each expression, he committed them all to memory. There was no way, either of them knew, that he would keep the photographs, except in his heart--any tangible connection left here, no matter how tenuous, to his former life in California was an unacceptable risk here to his carefully constructed life in hiding. Tony had risked a lot in coming to see him once, had risked much more in coming to visit now--and Jack had never in his life felt more ridiculously grateful for such misplaced thoughtfulness.

He looked up from the pictures at last, placing them reverently back in their manila envelope. He pressed the packet against his heart with an audible sniff; bowing his head, he watched the floor dissolve into a varnished shimmer for a long moment. He owed Tony everything for this--for bringing him life again, the promise of it, the reassurance that hope and love would go on without him. Everything, anything--he looked up again, not caring about the wetness on his lashes, or the slightly shaky breath he took just before he spoke.

"Thank you, Tony." Complete and utter sincerity colored his words.

"Yeah. Sure. No problem."

Jack started and blinked at the unintended bitter catch in his friend's voice.

Tony had turned away from him to watch the gathering storm build outside the living room's bay window. Tony stood rod-straight, shoulders tensed and fists clenched--and Jack saw Tony's jaw twitch, as it did when he was trying very hard to suppress something unbearably painful.

Jack realized that Tony had not mentioned anything about his own family since he'd arrived.

He hadn't asked either, but normally that wasn't a problem. Something had happened. _Oh dear God, please no--_

Jack studied Tony with growing trepidation. "What's wrong?" he finally asked, keeping his voice even and quiet. "What's happened, Tony?"

Tony inhaled sharply at the aching kindness in that tone and visibly coiled in further on himself.

_Here it comes--_

"Tony?"

He knew if he turned around now, if he saw that worn and knowing face, he'd shatter. Unable to turn around and face his friend, he spoke instead to the window, breath fogging then immediately crystallizing into a fine lace on the frigid glass. "In--in July. Michelle gave birth. You--you knew we were having twins, right? A boy and a girl?"

Jack nodded slowly, his eyes already widening in horrified understanding.

We--we lost one of the twins, Jack," he managed finally, surprised that he seemed to sound almost normal about it. "At birth. Stillborn--our son died."

The stark words echoed in the cold air around them. Jack staggered as if slapped. There was a sharp intake of shocked breath, followed by stunned silence. Then "Oh Christ, Tony, I'm so sorry--" his voice fell to a stricken whisper. He quickly regained control, spreading his hands out as if reaching to touch the other man. "Why--why didn't you let me know until now?"

Tony stared out at the whipping snow, white and grey against the frozen windowpane. The wind had edged up in strength, and he felt it slide through around the edges of the window. He touched the frosted glass, wishing it would freeze him too.

"It's--it's OK." He shrugged, attempting to ignore the question. "Our daughter's alive. That's a blessing, really, right? We have her. She keeps us going. She's beautiful." He grinned shakily, his voice unnaturally light. "Her name's Marissa. She looks like Michelle. They say girls always look like their mothers."

Jack's lips quirked in sympathy and let it pass. "How is Michelle doing?"

"All right, I guess. As expected. She--she's taking a while to get over it. But she's strong."

"And how are you?"

Tony froze, not knowing how to answer that one. In the months since the twins were born, no one had asked him that, ever--through the first nightmarish, fogged days, even at the funeral--all sympathy and attention had been, rightly he'd thought at the time, directed at Michelle. This was the first time anyone had asked him, and it was Jack--the words cut through, leaving him dazed. _Because no one bothers to ask the father_, he heard the resentful voice in his mind snap, and he was now shocked at just how sore he was at that. _What do you think?_

Jack studied him with a curious, sad expression, a hazy reflection behind him through the ice on the window. _Christ, did I say that out loud?_ Tony wondered. Jack's voice came across as if from a fog.

"You're just as important, Tony, he was your son." A slight catch on the last word. "What did he look like? What was his name?"

Each question was softly worded, but they still pierced his heart, threatening to make it bleed anew. He struggled to answer, keeping his voice completely even and emotionless. "Tomas," he finally said with a tinge of pride. "After my father. God he was--he was perfect, head full of curly dark hair, ten tiny fingers, all his toes." He tried to laugh, but it came out with a harsh choking gasp that grated in his throat. "The neonatal nurse said he looked like me. So I guess sons take after their fathers." His voice cracked; his lips twisted into a caricature of a grin.

"Do you know--?"

Tony sighed, trying to regroup. "They--they think Marissa may have compressed his cord during labor. That plus there was a knot in it, they think it was both that did it. They did a crash C-section on Michelle and they tried to resuscitate him but--" his voice trailed off into the fog on the glass.

Jack closed his eyes, lips forming a soundless "Dear God." Another awkward silence followed, punctuated only by slightly ragged breaths and the soft whir of the furnace turning on. He opened his eyes. "Why didn't you let me know?" he asked again, his voice infinitely soft. "Christ, Tony, why'd you keep something like that from me? If I'd known--"

Tony shrugged. "There's nothing you could've done. _Nothing._ These things happen." He tried to sound nonchalant, wondering why he didn't feel relieved now he had someone to share with; he felt himself scrabbling to cling onto the numbness that had kept him going the past four months--the numbness that was now dissipating, leaving only jagged raw hurt in its place.

"You didn't have to suffer through it alone." Jack's voice carried a faint note of recrimination.

"What could you have done, Jack?" Tony shot back, his voice cracking like a whip through the hushed air around them. "How far does a fucking one-minute phone call go?"

_When your world's falling apart?_

Jack flinched but didn't reply. He only stepped closer until he stood beside Tony at the window, watching the huge crystalline flakes swirl in the rising wind. "I'm here now," he murmured.

Standing this close, Jack felt the fine string of tension vibrating through Tony--the force of grief welling, roiling underneath--he knew down to his core, one touch and Tony would shatter. For now though he simply stood beside him, offering his strength and presence, sensing Tony wanted and needed to say something more, but was willfully holding it back out of some sense of misdirected duty.

Tony swiped his fist angrily across his eyes, trying blindly to regain the control that was rapidly slipping away. How many times had he wanted to call Jack, to hear his voice anchor him through the sadness--to cling to his steady, gravel-tinged words like a lifeline--even picked up the phone and started to dial a few times--only to realize that one minute wouldn't even allow him to begin. When he slammed the phone on the receiver hard enough to crack the casing and wrestled the rising grief back down, trying to forget the way his arms had curved around his stillborn son when he'd had to say goodbye.

It had been hard enough before Kim delivered, seeing her glowing face in the end stages of pregnancy, remembering how Michelle had glowed just the same way. Michelle didn't glow afterwards; wan and white, she had barely enough energy to care for their surviving daughter, and none to spare for herself, let alone him. Oh Christ, he did what he could--struggling to keep going, keep together, hold his job, provide for them; holding her as Michelle fell apart, shedding a few tears with her when he thought she needed to see them, but only a few--holding back, keeping strong, his own heart breaking more and more each time. And still they started to grow apart, Tomas' lifeless presence wedged between them, measured by the distance between them in their bed, now sleeping on opposite sides.

He'd promised Jack, as soon as Kim's baby was born Jack would know about it, and Tony Almeida was, if nothing, a man of his word, no matter how difficult it would be for him. When it was time, he had been there because Kim and Chase had asked him to, because Jack would have wanted it if he couldn't be there himself. It had been infinitely hard to be there, holding Kim's hand as she pushed, taking the place Jack should have had beside her, when he held Jack's newborn granddaughter in his arms and thought of his own dead son. In the end he'd asked Chloe O'Brien to call, swearing her to silence about his own loss. Though he listened in as Chloe called, standing in the outside courtyard of the birthing centre in the California sunshine and surrounded by blood-red bougainvillea, making sure she revealed nothing except the necessary details.

Chloe, good to her word, did so, and he watched her nod at the end with a quiet "You too," before ending the call. Then Chloe, whose level of empathy for others normally didn't fill a thimble, had handed the cell back to Tony with an odd expression somewhere between curiosity and sadness, said simply "Jack says thanks for letting him know, and wishes everyone a Happy Thanksgiving," and touched his shoulder briefly before walking off to see Kim and Chase and their new baby girl.

Christ it was Thanksgiving Day, he'd realized. Tony couldn't help but think with a painful laugh that his son's birthday and death day, three months and a lifetime ago, had been just as sunny and bright.

When he'd returned home, to find Michelle and their daughter asleep on the sofa, the house a ramshackle mess and no welcoming smells of dinner in the oven, he'd simply watched them for a while, jaw working silently; then he climbed the stairs and went into the upstairs bathroom. He stared at his haggard reflection in the mirror for a long time, dry eyes burning--he turned on the shower, then turning back, he coolly and calmly punched the mirror. Afterwards he scowled at the multiple images of him in the shattered silver, but he'd felt no pain, and he stupidly wished he did, because it would have been something real to focus on. Only the blood that steadily flowed from his lacerated fist reminded him that dammit, he was still alive and that he still bled.

Although now the scars on his knuckles started to ache.

He'd never called Jack because he knew, once he heard Jack's voice at the other end he'd split wide open, and then Jack would come back to find out why, the exile that kept him alive be damned and risking his life--and Tony would have never forgiven himself, because Jack alive in exile was far more important than Jack dead, even if he needed him there.

All of this flashed through his head, his mouth forming the words soundlessly, but unable to utter any of it aloud--to say it would mean to admit it and oh God it hurt so fucking much, to watch helplessly as Michelle drifted away from him, to turn into a stranger sharing their bed; to hold Marissa and never be able to hold Tomas; to think of the tiny blue cap they'd put on him, the blanket he'd been wrapped in, footprints on a slip of paper the only reminders of what could and should have been...

"I try to be strong for Michelle, but it's so hard, it's so fucking hard and she tries to be there for me but she's too overwhelmed still and--" a half-choked sob escaped, and he raised his head, jaw set and blinking rapidly. "Oh God I don't know what to do anymore." The words tumbled out, free at last, until Tony pursed his lips shut to try to keep them from quivering as his voice wavered. His arms ached--dammit, this wasn't his place to break here, not when Jack would need him to be strong and steady, but the waves of pain were cresting just below the surface and threatening to flood him and he couldn't help it--

Jack listened patiently, watched Tony forcibly try to rein in his grief, suddenly realizing with a sharp pang that this was probably the first time Tony was able to voice it openly without having to worry about hurting anyone else with it. He reached out and laid his hand gently on Tony's shoulder.

Tony squeezed his eyes shut at the warm weight of Jack's hand on his shoulder and he tensed at the contact but did not push it away, even as he felt himself break a little with it. Nor did he resist when Jack drew Tony away from the iced-over window towards him--as one errant tear escaped out of the corner of Tony's eye, then another--and then Jack was embracing him tightly, a sure but gentle hand threading through his short dark hair and guiding his head to rest on Jack's shoulder.

"It's all right, Tony," Jack murmured against the shell of his ear. "It's all right."

That did it then; the embrace, the words and above all the surety in Jack's gesture--the tenuous reserves broke, and Tony collapsed under their weight, his face crumpling, the months of bottled-up grief spilling over at last.

"Fuck, Jack," he gasped into his shoulder, voice dissolving. "Oh fuck and goddammit to hell--"

He sagged into Jack, and Jack held him up, held him, as Tony huddled against Jack and sobbed. Like a child, with angry howls and snot on Jack's shirt and pounding on Jack's arms and back; clinging so hard to him that he left finger-shaped bruises; alone and lost and letting the jagged tear in his soul rip him all the way through.

Jack held him fiercely, accepting the blows and the growing wetness on his shoulder, his own heart aching. While he may never hold, or see his granddaughter except in pictures, at least he knew she was alive, and healthy, and there was always a chance they would meet--while Tony would never see his son again, would never know him. It didn't compare, how could it? Jack was used to this pain, had had months to prepare himself for it. Tony's was an absolute shock--expecting two babies home but only taking one; having to say goodbye before having the chance to say hello--and having no one really to share it. Yes he could fathom it, the warm wriggling weight that should be there, missing permanently from his arms.

The air by the window was cold, and when the wind shifted the piercing draught around the moulding dropped the temperature a few more degrees. He felt more draughts at his back, from around the door, and probably every window around the house too. At the back of his mind Jack thought he would have to caulk in some more foam insulation once the storm was over--he realized he didn't have any of that on hand, so they'd just have to ride the cold and the draughts out awhile, he mused.

As the worst of his grief subsided and the wrenching sobs gave way to shuddering gasps, Tony stilled, his mouth working soundlessly against the damp sliminess of Jack's shirt. He was content to just be and not think for a while, resting against Jack's shoulder; almost like a child, lulled by the comfort of a steady heartbeat under his ear and the warmth in the close embrace of a friend who _knew_. When Tony opened his eyes and finally drew back, Jack was gazing at him with those intense blue/green eyes and an expression of utter sadness behind a sympathetic sheen. Tony blinked, trying to clear his own eyes from the hot grit of tears, knowing he probably should be embarrassed for breaking like this, but realizing he was not. Until Jack's gaze lowered to Tony's slightly open mouth; Tony closed his eyes again, slightly trembling as he realized what was going to happen--and was strangely unwilling to stop it.

Jack closed the distance to touch his lips to Tony's; being the same height it wasn't a reach--just brushing light and gentle, neither eager nor demanding, just--warm and comforting, Tony thought. Like he knew how Tony felt, isolated and helpless like this, expected to be strong for everyone else but needing someone there for himself to lean on. Because he did know, Tony knew, he had witnessed it more than once, Jack pulling everyone else together even while he himself was privately falling apart. And that was what allowed Tony to accept Jack's kiss, even to return it, in the spirit it was offered.

Jack felt Tony's mouth move slightly against his, accepting and returning the kiss in kind; he tasted the bitter salt on his lips, hoping Tony understood what he was trying to say now that all words failed. Things like _I'm here_ and _trust me_ and _I'll take care of you_; things he could never say aloud, but could show. _Let me be here for you now._

Jack's hand came up to caress Tony's jawline, feeling the slight rasp of stubble under his thumb pad, and Tony leaned into the touch, rubbing his tear-stained cheek against Jack's palm. The grief was still there, under the surface, God knew how his own heart ached with the loneliness of it--and _oh sonofabitch..._

Jack had spent the better part of the last seven months trying very hard not to think about what had happened that early spring morning the last time Tony had visited; as isolated and helpless as Tony was now, learning that he would be a grandfather and being able to do nothing about it. Shattered inside, both fueled by Scotch and resistance broached by it, he'd wept much as Tony just had, until he'd fallen into uneasy sleep, and Tony had been there to hold on to; he remembered waking up sweaty and wearing only his T-shirt, with stickiness on his belly and Tony sprawled, asleep and naked from the waist down, beside him. And the hazy recollection of desperate pleasure driving away the pain, of panting Scotch-sour breath, of tongues twining, dawn rising and the heat of Tony's body writhing under him; the recollection that had been all too real, anchored in the smells of sex in the bed and on them in the brilliant morning sun.

How he'd tried to forget, and failed miserably--but together and storm-bound, with Tony shattered and lost in his arms, he decided it didn't matter. Oh fuck, he didn't know why it was turning this way again--maybe because in some way it had to, that they both had been through too fucking much in their lives to be able to salve this crushing pain and loneliness any other way. So here they were, about to cross that threshold again between comfort and something else as had happened before, and he realized he didn't really care. All he knew was that this was payback in a way, for when Tony had been there for him--something he realized he could fulfill, that he now wanted to fulfill, and they would be even. Give and take--it was his turn to give now, if Tony wanted it. Dammit, he would offer.

"What do you want, Tony?" Jack murmured finally, drawing back, studying him with a hooded expression.

Tony swallowed, recognizing what Jack was offering. He'd offered it himself once, comfort and refuge with his body, and Jack had taken it, the desperate coupling at dawn in the hazy spring rain--and they had meant simply to leave it at that, a one-time offer, nothing more than that. But nothing ever turned out as they intended, he thought bitterly--and Christ he was tired, so tired now of being alone and lonely and in this unending, soul-sucking pain. If he had to turn to someone else for physical solace, at least it would be a friend who'd been there himself.

"Please." He spoke scarcely above a whisper, just barely a brush of breath against his cheek; his arms shook as he pulled Jack back against him, leaning his forehead against Jack's, wanting, needing and aching for the missing warmth and contact of his friend's body. "Please, I--I just don't want to feel like this anymore."

Any resistance Jack might have had to this course of action shattered with Tony's anguished plea. Jack nodded, then started to brush light flutters with his lips across Tony's wet cheeks, his closed eyelids, tasting the tears and the skin beneath. He felt Tony's breath start to shudder again, and, unable to bear witness to it anymore, he captured Tony's mouth with his own to still it; brushing against the corner of his mouth then sliding to full contact, his tongue gently seeking entrance.

It was the closeness that did it, _oh God_ Jack was holding him so close and kissing him so gently that Tony thought he might break once more with the sheer tenderness of it. Their mouths met with a clumsy bump, Jack's tongue licking lightly along his lips, but not forcing; Tony let him in with a strangled moan, not caring if Jack tasted snot and desperation there. Jack didn't recoil but simply explored Tony's mouth, slowly and thoroughly with his tongue, tasting its remnants of tears and anger and coffee-shadowed grief. Tony explored his in turn, the hints of stale tea, cigarettes, old things, nothing and everything familiar; drawing at Jack's mouth, drinking in the closeness he hadn't had in a lifetime--

They drew back again, shaky breaths and pulses racing, and when Jack reached out to caress his cheek with his thumb Tony closed his eyes. "Christ, Jack," he managed, voice unsteady. "I--I need ..."

"What do you need?"

The low graveled tone of Jack's voice shot shivers up and down Tony's spine, and longing instantly exploded along his veins, every nerve ending suddenly on fire. "You, Jack," he whispered at last, voice rough and tight. "Oh fuck. You. Me--just--fuck it, do something, dammit I don't care."

_Just don't let me be alone._

Jack wordlessly pulled Tony to the sofa, pushed him down by the shoulders, wasting no time; he unfastened Tony's jeans and pulled them off with no hesitation, discarding them haphazardly onto the hardwood floor, eyes flickering between Tony's swelling erection and his face. He was already hard as he tugged down his own pants, letting them drop on top of Tony's. In the blizzard-hued light of the room Tony's eyes darkened at the sight of Jack's erection jutting out from his body as he straightened up, and Tony licked his lips in anticipation, his own cock throbbing in response.

"Jack--" Tony's voice broke and re-formed at once, imploring, harsh and aching; Jack stood trembling in front of him, unable to speak. In that moment, they both knew that they were going further than before, and oh holy hell they both wanted it enough to hurt.

Jack clambered and lay beside him, fitting himself between Tony's legs--a tight fit on the narrow sofa, shoulders and chests and hips flush. He reached for the feather down quilt at the end of the sofa and covered both of them with it, not so much because of the cold air in the room as for its simple comfort, forming a cocoon of sorts to wrap themselves in, seeking shelter and solace from the reality outside. His left hand gripped Tony's right; lying so closely aligned, he slid his other hand between their bodies, to wrap his fingers around both their cocks, slowly fisting them both up and down as they started to search for a rhythm with their hips.

Tony tilted his head back against the pillows of the sofa, baring his throat, forgetting it was Jack's hand doing this, losing himself in the feeling of Jack bringing him off with such unbearably sweet friction of hand and cock against his own. Soon enough he forgot grief entirely, forgot pain; concentrating only on the ever-pulsing ache echoing and building across his groin, and Jack's other hand clasping his own, anchoring them. Eyes squeezed shut, face contorted and jaw clenched, blocking out the hopelessness, and _oh holy God_ Jack knew, he _knew_\--he felt it, heard it in the hand holding his own, speaking in a silent conversation of shared grief and loss and understanding. Even as he thrust into Jack's hand stroking him, as he scrabbled at Jack's upper arm with his free hand for some sort of purchase, for something warm and alive to hold onto; even as he felt himself plunging headlong toward orgasm, he clung to the hand holding his own, solid and warm and safe, trusting implicitly in its tacit promise _I won't let go_.

Jack watched Tony's face writhe with anguished pleasure, listened to him gasp and moan--this was only temporary respite he could give him, and it hurt, but it was something he could give, would give, relief and release for a while. Jack's wet lips braised Tony's throat, trailing up and down the straining column of his neck, hot humid breath ghosting in panting counterpoint with their lower bodies arching against each other; his own desire mounting, driving out the prickling loneliness he'd felt since Tony had left all those months ago. He'd missed, oh God how he'd missed--he rubbed against Tony, hard and fast now, trying to get as near as he possibly could, pushing him back into the sofa with the force of it. And oh Christ he craved, wanted, needed this closeness, for as long as Tony was willing to grant it. As Tony's hips ground against his, convulsing with heated desperate pleasure, Jack knew Tony was searching for that closeness too--and _sonofabitch_ it was so fucking tight and hot and perfect and he felt himself starting to fall--

Tony let go first, surrendering to release at last with a shudder and a strangled cry, and Jack still held on, his grip on Tony's hand firm and strong while his mouth covered Tony's to swallow his groans whole with devouring intensity, as if only by kissing him with such desperation he could hold on that much longer. Jack followed Tony almost right after, urged on by the pulse of Tony's orgasm against him; as he felt the bloom of warm jets on his skin, his own spilt over his hand between their bellies, while Tony's mouth clamped down hard on Jack's as he came, drawing out Jack's moans, claiming them as his own, their hands still firmly clasped. _I've got you._

Afterwards they lay spent and shaking against each other, huddled and entangled beneath the quilt, their hands clasped still, inhaling the mingled scents of sweat and breath and semen between them. As their heartbeats slowed they leaned into each other, saying nothing, shifting only to find a comfortable embrace. Finally they both dropped into exhausted sleep, realizing at the edge of consciousness that maybe they'd found what they were looking for, at least for a while--shelter and solace here in these arms, against this body under this quilt, as the snow outside swirled and drifted in the howling wind.


End file.
